Borrowed Time

It’s been 12 days since I have been able to use my hands to their fullest capacity to crochet, type, knit, and do daily things like cooking and cleaning. The origin of this hand pain is either a mixture of poor work practices or poor self care practices, both being drastic actions against the health and well being of my hands. Since I achieve the majority of my income with the use of my hands, I am undoubtedly dying right now.

I have done everything possible to relieve the pain, ranging from dull and achy to sharp and shooting, except going to the doctor. As, modern healthcare is a for-profit institution and I’m in no condition to take another pill. I’ve come full circle with my vitamin and minerals regimen where I profusely pray that I take them at the right time or suffer the consequence of vomiting them back up. Along with whatever breakfast seemed delicious that morning.

But all these symptoms have an explanation. I’m stressed out. Everything stressed me out, worrying stresses me out. I have this predisposition to always feel like I have to run at warp speed, as opposed to mortal speed, to keep living. It’s hard to explain the urgency to get life going. It feels like I’ve sped so fast through some things that now I’m chasing time bomb to the finish line.

There are things that still need to be done. There are poems I still need to finish. There are books I need to read, to write. People I need to meet and here I am worrying that I can’t be productive enough if I can’t work with my hands.


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